


2 Samuel 7:14

by eastcoastlighthouse



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Catheters, Extremely Dubious Consent, Humiliation, Jerk Off Instructions, M/M, Men Crying, No Aftercare, Paddling, Spanking, Vomiting, Watersports
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 20:31:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5305814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eastcoastlighthouse/pseuds/eastcoastlighthouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beth has left for a week-long equine cardiology conference. Jerry sees an opportunity to have a stern talk with his father-in-law. Unfortunately for him, Rick has a similar idea. Afterwards, Jerry continues seeking Rick out for rough treatment, but he gets more than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I will be his father

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the ever-lovely [lemonsweet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonsweet) and [cakeboobs](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeboobs).

"Now I'll be back on Friday evening." Beth stood in the hallway, slowly putting on her jacket. "There's some leftover stews and soups in the freezer if you don't want to cook, but I don't think it's enough to last the week so you'll need to either go shopping or find something else to eat." She put her hand up, stopping Jerry before he'd had a chance to get a word in. "By _something else_ I don't mean Hungry-Man frozen dinners, okay? And don't go overboard with take-out, either." With a significant look at Jerry's mid-section, she zipped up her jacket. "You can call or text if anything comes up, but I'm going to be busy. There's a lot of talks I want to attend. The keynote is about new developments in CPR technology, which is of course _crucial_..."

Jerry held out her suitcase to her. "Have a good time, honey," he said placidly, and any comments about horse CPR being perhaps less _crucial_ than, you know, _human CPR_ remained firmly in his mind, where they couldn't do too much damage. "I'm sure we'll be all right here. It's only a couple of days."

"It's a week," Beth corrected him. "Listen, tell Dad to go easy on the adventures, maybe? It makes me uneasy enough to leave you guys alone for a week without having to worry about that, too."

"Got it," Jerry sighed. "Soups and stews, no take-out, easy on the adventures. I feel like I'm on an episode of _Wife Swap_ here. How often do I vacuum the curtains?"

"I mean it." Beth took the suitcase, glaring at him. "See you in a week." She offered him her cheek, and he dutifully kissed it.

"See you in a week," he told the closing door. The hallway suddenly felt a lot emptier, and he couldn't help but glance at the family pictures on the wall. Sometimes it was hard to reconcile the perfect smiles of those two-dimensional Smith families with the very real Smith family living in his house. Now that he knew more about other dimensions, he sometimes wondered if those pictures were actually of other Smith families in other realities, where Beth hadn't gotten pregnant in high school, where they'd waited until after she finished med school, _real_ med school, where Summer didn't obsess over her phone, where Morty wasn't so, um, _special_...

His thoughts were interrupted by something metallic crashing to the ground in the garage, followed by a stream of Spanish profanity.

 _A Smith family where Rick had never come back._ He huffed, and locked the door for the night. As the bolt clicked, something clicked in his mind. _Tell Dad to go easy on the adventures._ Beth hated it when he butted heads with Rick, but hadn't she basically given him carte blanche to have a serious talk with his father-in-law regarding his frankly irresponsible grandfathering methods? He ran a hand through his hair, and made his way to the garage.

In the garage, Rick was welding something that looked like an iron lung, his back to the door. The white sparks bathed the garage in an eerie light, and the hissing sounds drowned out Jerry's repeated throat-clearing. God, once upon a time he'd been thinking about turning this place into a rec room. Now Rick had claimed it and turned it into some sort of industrial horror movie set. "Rick!" he raised his voice. "Rick! Hey!"

Rick finally stopped his welding, turned around, and lifted his welding mask. Sweat dripped down his face. "Th-the fuck do you want, Jerry? I'm busy."

"Beth just left-"

Rick turned back to his project, and before Jerry could even finish his sentence he'd fired up the power supply once more.

"Hey!" Jerry flushed with the indignation of it, and walked up to Rick to put a hand on his shoulder. Rick's free hand shot back and shoved him to the floor, knocking the wind out of him. "Jerry, you -- you idiot! You trying to get yourself killed? This -- _eeuuurrrp_ \-- this isn't a game!"

"I wasn't finished!" Jerry said, wincing as he got to his feet. "You didn't have to push me, you know."

"You're right, I should've let you -- should have burned your hand off," Rick sneered, pushing up the mask again. "Well, wh-what do you want?"

" _Beth just left_ ," Jerry repeated emphatically, "and since she's gone, I thought we could have a talk."

"Wow, you -- you really man up when your wife's gone, huh?" Rick flipped the switch on the welding machine and put the rod down. "Okay, let's hear it. M-mano-a-mano."

"I think," Jerry said, taking a deep breath, "I think that you have no business taking Morty on adventures. I think that -- that you're putting him in danger, and I think it's high time it stops!"

"I disagree." Rick took off the mask and threw it over his shoulder. "Anything else?"

Jerry felt a sudden wave of nausea as the need to run away from Rick's unflappable assholery and the urge to stay and punch him in the face battled it out inside him. "It's not your place to disagree! I'm his father, and…"

“…and such a bang-up job you’re doing of it too, huh? Y-you’re really knocking it out off the park, are-aren’t you, Jerry? You know, w-we should try and, we could see who he listens to more. You c-can tell him to stay home and I can ask him to come with me, and we’ll see who he, who he listens to.” Rick pulled off his gloves, the very picture of serenity.

“I’m not getting into some kind of contest with you!” Jerry seethed. “And where are you getting off calling me a bad father? Your own daughter only gets to see you when you need a place to stay! How’s that for shitty parenting, huh?”

“Wow, you really got me, you really got me there.” Rick stood up and ran a hand over his face, wiping the sweat through his messy hair. His hands shook. “Why d-don’t we have this conversation when Beth gets back, _Jerry?_ ” Before Jerry could give in to his more primal instincts and run away, Rick was upon him, grabbing him by his collar and shaking him roughly. “No, I-I’ve got a better idea, I’ll just leave and tell her you told me to. H-how’s that, Jerry? Sounds good to you?”

Jerry swallowed, his hands ineffectively clawing at Rick’s surprisingly strong arms. He could see _that_ particular scenario play out in his mind: Beth crying and hurling bottles of wine at him, being kicked out of his own house, the kids sullenly staring at him from their bedroom windows. At the heart of it, if they had to choose sides, surely they would… or would they…?

“Exactly,” Rick spat, and shoved him away. “Now run along, Jerry. I’ve -- I’ve got better things to do than deal with you, believe it or not.”

Jerry rubbed at his abused throat, trying to form a proper response but coming up short. “N-no adventures,” he managed weakly, “or I’ll… I’ll tell Beth you almost killed him when she gets back!”

Rick snorted and rolled his eyes. “Whoo boy! Not _that_ , Jerry! Whatever will I do?”

“Laugh it up!” Jerry trembled. “Maybe it just takes your daughter kicking you out of her house for you get your act together!”

Rick bared his teeth in what could only with great charity be called a grin. “So now it’s _her_ house, is it?”

“I meant our house,” Jerry flustered, tugging on his shirt to straighten it.

“You meant my house,” Rick said, and before Jerry had a chance to rail against him he was shoved face-first into Rick’s workbench.

“I am so tired of your -- _euurrppp_ \-- shit, Jerry. I deal with guys like you every single day and let me tell you, it does not get any easier. I want to make it clear that the only reason I am putting up with you is that I love my daughter and I love my grandkids. As for you, I wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.”

Jerry breathed heavily against the cold metal of the worktable. Even if he could have moved his head with Rick pressing down on his neck like that, he was not entirely sure if he wanted to see Rick’s expression right now.

“Now I’m -- I’m gonna make sure we don’t have to have this talk again, okay, Jerry?” The hand left his neck, but before Jerry could get up there came a stern command to “stay there” from behind him. He heard Rick rustling around in a drawer. “Like I told you before, I have better things to do.”

“Wuh-what?” Jerry panted. He became aware of something hard pressing against the seat of his pants. The first bewildering thought that rose to the surface of his conscious mind was that Rick had sandwiched him between two desks, but that would be ridiculous. Suddenly the pressure against his ass was gone, and before Jerry could turn around to see what exactly was going on, there was a hissing sound of something slicing through air, and then something lit his pants on fire.

It felt like his lungs were gone as he gasped for air. “What… what…?” he wheezed, but Rick’s hand between his shoulder blades pushed him down. “You ever see _Pulp Fiction_ , Jerry? Yeah, exactly. Say _what_ again, motherfucker.” Again the swooshing sound, and this time he realized that his ass was not actually on fire – Rick was just hitting him. _Rick_ was _hitting him_. There really was no _just_ about it.

“It’s called a Lexan paddle,” Rick helpfully clarified. “It’s plastic, so it bends. Stings like a _bitch_. But you would know more about that than me at this point.”

Jerry flailed his arms, but found he could not push himself up and away from the desk. Rick’s hand on his shoulders made sure of that. “Stop-stop that!”

“Wh-when you’ve had enough,” Rick replied. “Three more of these before we drop the pants, so enjoy them, I guess.”

“What are you doing?” Jerry tried to connect the puzzle pieces in his mind but found it difficult to focus with the stinging sensation demanding most of his attention. He had no clue what a Lexan was, but he’d definitely heard of paddles before. Did Rick think he was a Catholic schoolboy? Was he actually paddling him? The third _smack_ felt twice as painful as the two previous ones -- perhaps the knowledge of what was happening hurt more than the actual paddling.

“I’m making sure we don’t have to have this talk again,” Rick explained, his voice a slow drawl, as if he was explaining something to an especially dim-witted child. “I-I can’t be dealing with your pathetic attempts at blackmail all the time, Jerry. It’s -- it’s a waste of my time.”

Another whack with the paddle landed squarely on both his ass cheeks. Jerry cried out, his hands scrabbling for purchase on the metal surface of the table, until he finally stilled.

“One more,” Rick said. “Hey, stopped fighting already?” He tut-tutted, and Jerry could hear the shit-eating smirk on his face in his voice. “Y-you really are a little bitch.” He punctuated the last syllable with another whack to Jerry’s still-clothed ass. “And that’s five.”

Suddenly the hand between Jerry’s shoulder blades was gone, and he whipped around to see Rick tapping his hand with a sizable see-through paddle. “You… you psychopath!” Jerry felt like he was having an asthma attack, breaths tearing through his lungs. “What the hell was that?!” A smaller, younger part of him wanted to reach back and rub his abused ass, but the part of him that had deigned to grow up couldn’t possibly do something so embarrassing in front of his father-in-law.

“I think you know what that was,” Rick replied coolly, “and we’re not done. Get back over that table.”

“As… as if!” Jerry clenched his fists and looked at them as if seeing his own hands for the first time.

“You’re gonna fight me?” Rick barked out a laugh. “Bring it on, motherfucker.” He dropped the paddle, shrugged off his lab coat, and pulled his sweater over his head. Left in a dirty, sweat-soaked wifebeater, he cracked his knuckles.

Jerry only realized he was backing away from Rick when he hit the workbench. Rick smelled absolutely foul, all sweat and grime and alcohol -- but more than that it was the look on his face. There was no doubt in Jerry’s mind that Rick could absolutely kick his ass, no matter how old he was. In fact, the calculating way he was looking Jerry over gave him the uncomfortable realization that Rick might have been waiting for just this opportunity.

“Second thoughts?” Rick snickered. “You d-don’t think you can hold your own against an old man? Jesus Christ, what does Beth see in you?”

“Listen, this is… this is all totally unnecessary,” Jerry babbled. “Forget I said anything, we can leave it, and you can do whatever you want.”

“I will,” Rick said, and stooped down to pick up the paddle. “So, wh-where were we?” He walked up to Jerry and put a hand on his shoulder. In another universe, with another Rick and another Jerry, the gesture might have been friendly. “Bend over the table.”

“I said I’d leave it!” Jerry raised his hand as if to pry Rick’s off of him, but dropped it after one look at his father-in-law.

“I know,” Rick said, his voice low, “and I’m gonna make sure you do. Now you don’t want me to ask again.”

Time seemed to slow around him, and Jerry could hear his blood rushing in his ears. Jesus, he wasn’t about to faint, was he? (Would Rick leave him alone if he did, or would he just come to and find himself restrained?) He’d sometimes wondered how it would feel if you knew you were at a life-changing junction during the fact instead of after. That time with Beth in the back of his crappy Ford Festiva hadn’t felt like a life-changing junction at the time, but look where it got him. This, however, this was a road-less-traveled-by scenario for sure. He contemplated pushing past Rick, but the very thought of confronting him had his throat constricting. Slowly, he turned around. Rick didn’t even have to push him down this time.

“That’s it,” Rick said. “Now drop the pants.”

“Oh, come on,” Jerry shuddered, but the sound of Rick sucking in air through his teeth had him fumbling with his zipper, which was not made any easier by the awkward ninety-degree angle in which he found himself bent over the table. His pants dropped to the floor with a dull thud, and he was left in his white briefs.

“Those too,” Rick instructed, “for that weak-ass attempt at talking back just now.”

“Rick, please.” He tried to sound like the grown-up in the situation, but instead of exasperation all he managed to convey was anxiety.

Rick said nothing.

Trembling, Jerry hooked his thumbs behind the elastic -- it was starting to go a bit, he noticed with dismay; of course Rick had to see him in his oldest pair of underwear -- and pushed the briefs down. They joined his pants on the floor, and despite his shirt, his socks, and his shoes, Jerry felt entirely, humiliatingly naked.

“Wh-what sounds like a fair number to you, Jerry?” Rick asked him, patting his ass lightly with the paddle.

Jerry’s mind raced. If he low-balled it, Rick would just give him more. But if he erred on the side of caution, he might end up having to take more than Rick had been planning in the first place. “Ten?” he tried.

“Ten,” Rick mused. “Hmm. How long did you say Beth was gonna be gone?”

“Six days.” Jerry’s mouth felt dry.

“Let’s make it sixty, then.” And before Jerry could protest, the first one hit him. He gasped, and tears sprang to his eyes, more at the shock of it than anything else. “In -- _eugh_ \-- the spirit of sportsmanship, Jerry -- if your hands leave that desk I’m tacking on another ten.”

Jerry turned his head as far as it would go, gasping for air like a drowning man, his eyes bulging. The second swat hit him, and he curled his hands around the far edge of the table, holding on as if it was a life buoy. The third hit, and he couldn’t hold back a dry sob.

“Give me a break. Crying already?” Rick sighed, and delivered the next two swats in quick succession.

“I’m not crying,” Jerry bit back, but his vision was already growing blurry. His ass felt like he’d sat down on a stove, or on a fire ant nest, perhaps. The seventh and eighth swats were enough to send those half-cried tears sliding down his nose and cheeks, and after the tenth one, he was begging.

“Puh-please stop,” he panted, his shaking hands still grasping the edge of the workbench. “Puh-puh-please. I… I’m sorry. I’m sorry!”

“I don’t give a shit,” Rick replied cheerfully. “Fifty more to go, big guy.” Only Rick could make him feel like a five-year old. Well, Rick and Beth both, really.

It seemed a switch inside him had been flipped, and Jerry couldn’t hold back his tears anymore. His head flew up with every stinging swat to his backside, and he cried out with abandon, as if shouting could lessen the pain, or perhaps encourage Rick to go easy on him. It didn’t seem either one of those things was likely to happen, though.

Rick had started aiming the swats at his upper thighs, and somehow they stung even more on previously unmarred flesh. Just when he was sure he’d made it through, that the whole ordeal was over, Rick stopped.

“Halfway through,” he said.

Jerry collapsed on the table. “N-no, God, please,” he bawled. “Th-that was… we’re done, we’re done, puh-please, please stop, no...”

“Halfway done,” Rick repeated, and to drive his point home, he smacked Jerry’s thighs. “Now I-I suppose it’s a, a bit late to tell you, that you -- _eeuuughh_ \-- you don’t have to take this like a little bitch, but try to man up, will you?”

“I cuh-cuh-can’t,” Jerry blubbered, snot dribbling down his upper lip and onto the surface below him. His entire existence seemed to have been reduced to two things: shame that Rick had reduced him to this, and agony. Three things, perhaps, because there was fear, too. Fear that it could -- and would -- get worse before it got better. 

Maybe it never would get better.

“Then don’t,” Rick replied curtly.

Jerry could hardly find the energy to stand up, and had to focus all his strength on clutching the edge of the table, the consequences of letting go lighting up his mind like a neon sign. His chest heaved with sobs, and he found he couldn’t even find the breath to cry out any longer. How far along were they now? Had they passed forty? Who was to say if Rick would even stop at sixty? That thought alone had him rubbing his cheek in the mixture of tears and mucus underneath his face, trying to shake his head but finding it too difficult to actually raise himself up enough to do so. His calf muscles almost burned as much as his ass at this point, and he could feel his knees buckling after every swat. If only he could make it through without letting go of the table. Nothing else mattered. He just had to hold on to the table. That was enough.

“Ten left,” Rick interrupted his silent mantra. “Before you -- before I give you those, let’s make sure you’ve learned something here. Why is this happening?”

Jerry silently sobbed, his hair plastered against his forehead. Another swat had him whimpering.

“That one’s off the record. Why is this happening?”

“Buh-because I talked back!” Jerry blubbered.

Rick mimicked a buzzer sound. “Try again!” Again he smacked Jerry’s ass. He was sure it was bleeding by now.

“Because… because I said you couldn’t take Morty on… on adventures! Is that -- please don’t -- ” He was interrupted by another swat and almost gagged at the thought of being stuck here forever, trying to read Rick’s mind and coming up short, being punished every time he screwed up this impossible task.

“Come on, Jerry, come on!” Rick sounded amused. “I-I’m starting to think you’re enjoying this! Why is this happening?”

“I don’t know!” Jerry bawled. “I’m sorry! I’m… I’m sorry!” He raised his shoulders as he waited for the inevitable swat, but instead found his head jerked back by his hair, Rick’s sour breath in his face.

“This is happening,” Rick whispered, “because you tried to tell me what to do.”

Jerry stared at Rick from the corners of his eyes, wide-eyed and panicked. His face felt puffy and he couldn’t breathe through his nose, too clogged-up with mucus as it was.

“Wh-why is this happening, Jerry?” Rick’s mouth was so close to his ear he could practically feel his teeth.

“Because I tried to… I tried to tell you what to do,” Jerry replied obediently.

“And don’t you forget it, you limp-dicked, saggy-assed cocksucker.” Rick jovially patted him on the back. “Final ten. Hey, c-considering I’m teaching you such a great life-lesson here, how’s about some thanks?”

“Thanks,” Jerry snivelled.

“Not like that. Come on, you -- you never watch porn, Jerry? You know how this goes.” Jerry could hear the rushing air of the paddle being swung back, and braced himself for the impact. It landed with a resounding _smack_ that had him seeing stars.

“Thank you, Rick, I won’t try to tell you what to do again,” Rick said in a sing-song voice.

“Th-thank you, Rick,” Jerry found the words tumbling from his mouth despite himself, “I won’t, I won’t try to tell you what to do again.”

“Excellent.”

Another smack. Jerry could no longer find it in himself to cry. When the next swat didn’t come, he realized what Rick was waiting for, and he squeezed his eyes shut. “Thank you… Rick. I won’t try to tell you what to do again.”

“That’s great news, Jerry.”

As Jerry took the remainder of his punishment, obediently thanking Rick and telling him he’d learned his lesson after each one, he felt something blooming inside him that was entirely unfamiliar. With each smack he neared the end of his penance, and he tried in vain to put words to the blankness in his mind.

The final swat. “Thank you, Rick,” he breathed, “I won’t… I won’t try to tell you what to do again.”

He could hear the paddle drop on the floor behind him, followed by Rick’s footsteps. As he lay across the table, his white-knuckled hands still holding onto the edge, he realized he felt utterly empty, and utterly calm. Only when he heard the sparks of Rick’s welding machine did he push himself up, struggling to stand on his trembling legs, and pulled up his underwear and his pants, wincing as the fabric slid over his ass.

He wiped at his face with the back of his hand, and turned to look at Rick’s back. Unsure what to say, he shambled out of the garage, his nerve endings on fire with every step, and every step a reminder of that incantation Rick had planted in his brain.


	2. And he shall be my son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jerry attempts to come to terms with the consequences of his actions, turns to Beth for help, and confuses desperation with affection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I wasn't expecting people to like my little Jerry sin here. Special thanks to my cheerleaders [lemonsweet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonsweet) and [cakeboobs](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeboobs).

Jerry turned and turned in front of the bedroom mirror. Once upon a time in high school he’d smoked some marijuana with one of his slightly more alternative acquaintances. Although that memory was a hazy one (which really had more to do with the several lifetimes’ worth of experiences he’d had since then than the potency of the pot), it came closest to how he was feeling right now.

His eyes had started watering again when he was shuffling up the stairs, careful not to damage the skin more than it already was, but after he’d gotten to the bedroom and dropped his slacks and his underwear, he’d felt better than he had in a long time. It would have been disconcerting if it hadn’t been for that feeling of bonelessness that almost had him flopping down on the bed for what would surely be the most satisfying sleep of his entire life. Still, before he could even consider getting any shut-eye, there was damage to assess.

He contorted his body, frustrated at his inability to see the marks left from every angle at once. When he’d first glimpsed his ass in the mirror he hadn’t been able to suppress a sharp intake of breath. While there was none of the blood he’d been expecting, it definitely did not look like any of the lightly blushing bottoms of the girls he absent-mindedly jacked off to every now and then. His ass was discolored, the red at the edges already fading into pink, but the bulls-eye of each cheek was an angry, mottled purple. He tentatively traced the edge of one of the bruises with his finger, hissing at the sting of it.

That night he slept in snatches, rolling onto his throbbing ass in his sleep, jerking awake with the sudden reminder of his rough treatment at Rick’s hands. After one such rude awakening he found his pillow wet, his head pounding.

The next morning when his bedside clock sounded its vestigial 7AM alarm, he couldn’t bring himself to get up, utterly spent. The comforting blankness of the previous night felt a lot more like emptiness in the harsh daylight, and when he -- wincing -- rolled over on his other side, he was faced with a pillow, rather than Beth’s tousled hair.

He became dimly aware that it was a Sunday. Five more nights until Beth would come back. It seemed that in her absence his children had foregone their usual communal Sunday breakfast. Summer’s bedroom door opened and closed, followed by the sounds of a shower, followed by her bedroom door again, and then finally by the front door slamming shut. Morty’s panicked voice carried into the master bedroom even from the garden, and when it was drowned out by what sounded like an unreliable plane engine, Jerry realized he and Rick must have taken off somewhere.

Rick.

He grunted and covered his head with Beth’s pillow. What the hell had _that_ been all about? If it hadn’t been for the dull ache in his backside, he would’ve chalked it up to an especially unfortunate nightmare. And yet, as he breathed in the smell of Beth’s shampoo, that soreness was still tinged by something he was hesitant to call _comfort_.

When he finally managed to drag himself out of bed he shuffled through the house in his robe, making himself a cup of coffee in the quiet of his house

(their house)

(Rick’s house?)

followed by a fruitless search for a newspaper that hadn’t come, only to discover his cup of coffee in the bookcase, gone cold.

He sat down in his armchair (wincing as he lowered his aching ass onto the soft cushions), sipping his coffee, making a face with every mouthful, staring at the television.

When Summer finally came home dusk had already fallen, and she walked past him to the kitchen, eyes trained on her phone.

“Uh, dad,” she asked, popping her head back into the living room, and he blearily turned to her. “Where’s dinner?” She squinted as she looked at the television. “You might want to try, like, turning it _on_ if you’re gonna watch TV.”

Jerry rubbed his eyes. He felt like half of him was still in the garage. “Oh, right.” Bent over a workbench.

“Are you alright?” Summer sounded more suspicious than concerned, and her thumbs were still tapping the screen of her phone with lightning speed. “Why are you in your pajamas? It’s...” She glanced down. “...past six.”

Jerry hoisted himself up and out of the chair, self-consciously clutching his robe around him. “Summer flu!” he tried. “Hey, how does stew sound? I’ll heat up a stew...”

“Oh my god, if you’re depressed, see a doctor.” Summer rolled her eyes. “Like, it’s not fair to just dump that on us, you know? It’s 2015. We don’t have to keep things _in the family_ anymore.” She gave him a meaningful look that had more than a little bit of Beth in it. “There’s _pills_ , Dad.”

“Nothing a good stew won’t fix!” Jerry smiled with gritted teeth, and made his way to the kitchen, where he heated up a stew labelled _Cabernet beef veg_ , which he proceeded to eat with Summer, at the dinner table, in silence.

When he went to bed, there was still no sign of Morty, or of Rick.

As the week passed, Jerry made a concentrated effort not to sink down in his slump. He’d long since given up on any actual _getting out_ of the slump. He liked to think said slump had only appeared in his life after the Hungry for Apples debacle, and was thus entirely to blame on an external cause and subsequently not his responsibility to work through. Still, he could at least get dressed.

On Tuesday morning, when Jerry made his way downstairs, Morty lay flopped over the dinner table, snoring softly into his dry Cheerios. Rick was still nowhere to be seen, but that was not a rare occurrence as such.

Just a coincidence.

On Wednesday morning, Rick finally stumbled into the kitchen, half-delirious and all-drunk, slurring something incomprehensible in Jerry’s direction. He attempted to ruffle the lampshade’s non-existent hair, collapsed onto the trashcan, and stayed there for the remainder of the morning. When Jerry went back that afternoon to continue an ill-advised ceviche experiment, he was gone.

He slowed down whenever he walked past the garage the rest of the week, not sure if he wanted to get away unnoticed or be caught. He’d made a list of talking points in bed, but none of them seemed like the kind of thing he could hurl at a flesh-and-blood Rick, no matter how successfully he’d practiced them in the mirror, accusatory finger wags and all.

( _1\. What is wrong with you?_ was one of the talking points. There was also _4\. You need professional help._ and _9\. You disgust me._ )

And still, every morning after his shower, and every night after he got undressed, he’d pivot in front of the mirror, marveling at how quickly the marks were fading, and finding that the more his skin healed, the more his insides felt like they were ever so slowly growing too big for his body.

Beth came back to a mostly tidy house. The soups and stews were all gone, and several Panda Express boxes lay buried at the bottom of the trashcan, artfully covered by orange peels and wet wipes. In the garage, Rick was hammering away at something or other, the radio blasting Wakal. Jerry carried Beth’s suitcase upstairs while she checked up on the Smith children (Summer illuminated by a blue glow, glimpsing up, a barely perceptible smile; Morty sleeping the sleep of the innocent in his bed, still in possession of all his limbs, at a glance).

Afterwards, he poured her a glass of wine, got himself a beer, and they sat down on the sofa. He tried to ask her questions, but her exaggerated smiles while she used the remote control and the coasters to explain the various seminars she’d attended to her unscientific husband began to annoy him soon enough, and he switched the subject.

“I missed you,” he said. Snatches of a song drifted into the living room, and he could hear Rick grunt along to something that sounded remarkably like _hey, shut the fuck up, your voice is pissing me off_ amid all the hammering.

Beth swallowed her wine. “It’s nice to be back.”

He fidgeted with his beer, pulling at the label, and then finally said: “Listen, I’ve been thinking.” Beth sank down into the sofa a bit further, and he hastily continued: “I guess it’s more a bedroom sort of conversation.”

“Oh?” That got her attention. She put down her glass. In the garage, the radio had been switched to the Stooges, with Rick’s half-mumbled delivery of the lyrics following Iggy Pop’s after a beat or two.

“You know, the kids are older, they’re gone more -- we could, um, spice things up? Every now and then? Nothing too crazy?”

“Like costumes,” Beth replied, barely suppressing a smirk. 

“No, I was thinking...” He swallowed, staring at his bottle. The double O in Coors always looked a little bit like a pair of glasses to him. “Maybe we could try something more like -- and I’m not saying we _have to_ , but it sounds fun and we could give it a try, at least? And if we hate it… we don’t do it anymore.” He realized Beth was glancing towards the stairs in a decidedly unsexy way, and that he had to make his move now. “I figured we could try spanking? Maybe?”

Beth pursed her lips, and started counting on her fingers. “One: old-fashioned. Two: degrading. Three: misogynistic. No, _thank you_.”

Jerry flustered. “N-no, I don’t mean that _I’d_ be doing the honors, as such...”

Beth frowned at him, and smiled in disbelief. “What, you’re asking me to spank _you?_ Oh, _Jerry._ ” She downed her wine and stood up, shaking her head bemusedly. “I won’t say I’m _surprised_ , but really? What am I supposed to get out of that anyway?”

Jerry’s mouth had already formed itself around the first syllable of _power trip_ before he thought better of it and shut his mouth. He refused to make eye contact, shrugged, and slumped into the corner of the sofa. “Forget I said anything,” he said sullenly.

“Done,” Beth snorted, in a tone that was less no-harm-no-foul and more filing-away-for-future-arguments. “I’m going to bed. I was talking to Corey last night, and he’s _so right_ when he says there’s no substitute for a solid eight hours of sleep.”

Jerry spent the rest of the evening in the oppressive silence of the living room, conjuring images of this mysterious Corey (probably late twenties, built like a swimmer, sun-bleached hair to his shoulders, yoga on the beach during the weekend, year abroad helping the needy in fucking Tanzania). When he finally went upstairs Beth was already asleep, and he furtively checked out his ass in the mirror. Not a single mark. What happened a week ago might as well have happened to some other Jerry in some other garage.

When he woke up an hour later -- his alarm clock accusingly blinking _01:14_ at him -- it was to cold sweat and a hazy thought that took shape slowly, like a car in the fog: when had the living room become quiet?

When had Rick turned off the music?

Had he been listening to them?

How much had he heard?

He tossed and turned, and only finally fell asleep after Beth had already gotten up to get ready for a double shift at the clinic.

After he finally got up, he spent most of his breakfast going over his list of talking points. After gestating for a few days, they looked less like the product of the wrath of a man ill-used, and more like a pathetic attempt to scoop up whatever little dignity he had left. Perhaps he didn’t need them after all. He crumpled up the paper and tossed it in the paper recycling bin, and before he knew it, he was halfway down the corridor.

He sidled into the garage, wringing his hands behind his back. “Hey, Rick.”

Rick didn’t as much as glance in his direction. The tip of his tongue just protruding from his mouth, he seemed to be engrossed in what looked like an embroidery project involving especially delicate thread.

“That looks, uh...” Jerry was at a loss. “Are you… is that needlework?”

“Sarcenet -- _eeuugghh_ \-- air filter, Jerry,” Rick muttered. “Tried to hand-raise these -- these little bastards to produce it for me.” He jerked his head towards the workbench over which Jerry had found himself bent just a week ago. On it lay a few dozen milky-white worms, the size and shape of peanuts. “Died the moment they got a whiff of the atmosphere. I-I couldn’t believe it, Jerry. Waste of a good sericultural incubator too. A guy tells you -- lets you think these, these babies aren’t gonna be scared of a little nitrogen. Just, just look at that. C-can you... y-you can’t make this stuff up, Jerry.”

Jerry -- bewildered -- nodded in agreement. He indeed could not have made this up. The cultural incubator was one thing, but Rick was acting disturbingly normal.

“Can I...” Jerry began, and realized that other than the chair Rick was sitting on, there were no other places to sit. He fidgeted, and contemplated nonchalantly having a seat on the edge of the desk, but didn’t want to touch the worms.

“Don’t you -- don’t you have a resume to update, Jerry?” Rick didn’t take his eyes off of his needle and thread. “Volunteer in a soup kitchen? Y-you know, you gotta… you gotta put yourself -- _eeuuurppp_ \-- out there, Jerry. Gotta -- gotta shake the right hands, be in the right places, meet the right people, be there, do that, get the… get the T-shirt.”

“Do you want me to leave?” Jerry turned away to wince at the pathetic way his voice rose.

“I don’t give a shit what you do, Jerry.”

Jerry flustered. “It’s just, I think we should talk.” His heart pounded in his throat, and still Rick didn’t look up from his stupid arts and crafts project. “Look, put that down.”

Rick slowly lowered his hands, and turned to face Jerry, his face wiped clean of any traces of emotion. “What was that?”

“Could you put that down?” Jerry corrected himself, loosening his collar. “Please? I was wondering if you...”

“N-no, no. Hold on. Did you just try -- ”

“I didn’t mean anything by -- ”

“By what?” Rick put the unfinished air filter on a nearby shelf, and folded his hands in his lap.

“I didn’t mean to try and tell you what to do!” Jerry blurted out, his stomach turning.

Rick cocked his head at him. His upper lip twitched into a sneer. “What do you want, Jerry?”

When Jerry had come down to the garage, his only half-formed plan had been _talk to Rick_. _Confront Rick_ had been a nice idea in the privacy of his own bedroom, but he knew himself well enough to know that wasn’t likely to happen anytime soon. Now that he was here, standing next to Rick’s chair like a naughty child awaiting their parent’s judgment, his subconscious intentions finally became painfully clear to him.

“Last time,” he mumbled. He could not bring himself to say anything more than that.

“Why don’t you ask Beth?” Rick snorted. The way he looked back at Jerry after he’d said it made it very clear how much he had heard the previous night.

Jerry gaped down at him. “I… I...”

“Disgusting.” Rick shook his head. “I-I try to teach you something, put you on the… on the path to self-improvement, and look at this. Get on the floor.”

Jerry’s legs shook as he kneeled on the concrete floor. Mental images rose up in his mind like gas bubbles in a tar pit. _Rick unzipping his pants, Rick’s flaccid cock being slapped against his cheek, Rick pissing on his chest._ Where the hell did that come from?

Staring up at his lanky father-in-law, Jerry felt that familiar sinking feeling in his stomach. If Rick wanted to, if he _really wanted to_ \-- he could destroy him. He was smart enough to do it. He could make him disappear without a trace. Presumably the others would miss him. Who was Summer going to share her silent dinners with? Who was Morty going to feel superior to? Who was Beth going to emotionally cheat on?

Rick’s gaze burned on his crotch, and when he finally looked down he was mortified to find himself half-hard.

“You piece of shit. Keep your hands behind your back.”

Jerry obliged, swallowing down something that was most definitely not a dry sob. He shuddered as Rick slowly, carefully put his foot against his crotch. He didn’t push, but he could have, and the promise (or threat?) was there.

“This,” Rick continued, waving his hands like a bored schoolmaster, “this is re-repulsive, Jerry.”

“It’s repulsive,” Jerry agreed, easily falling into the repeat-after-me they’d played at a week earlier.

“Shut your… shut the fuck up.” Rick’s foot pressed down. The pressure became more uncomfortable, and Jerry’s breath hitched at the realization that that only made him grow harder. “I-I want nothing to do with this, Jerry.”

Jerry closed his eyes. He didn’t really want anything to do with this, either.

“So I’m gonna… you can just take this pathetic little weiner out of here, and leave me alone.”

Jerry’s eyes shot open and he looked up at Rick. Was that it?

Rick towered over him, and thrust his hands in his pockets as he bent over to look Jerry in the eye. “You’re a sick... you’re a piece of shit, and you’re jonesing for your wife’s father to beat your ass. Wh-why don’t you go and think about that, Jerry?”

Rick turned away, and Jerry’s mouth opened in a wordless protest. He reached out and grabbed for Rick’s lab coat, and was shocked to find it within his grasp. Rick glanced over his shoulder, the expression on his face like the one on someone who has a suspicion they may have just stepped in dog shit.

“It doesn’t need to be...” Jerry pleaded breathlessly, “it doesn’t need to be that. I’ll -- it can be something else.” He felt sick to his stomach at his weak, wheedling voice, and could only imagine how Rick felt. He went through the database of degrading acts he had ever witnessed or conceived in his life to find something -- _anything_ \-- that might persuade Rick to let him stay just a moment longer. “I can…it could be something… something for you…”

With a sharp tug, Rick freed his coat from Jerry’s desperate grasp. “Y-you think the sight of your -- _eeuughh_ \-- your flabby love handles gets me going, Jerry? You’re f-fucking delusional.” He snickered, squinting at Jerry in a way that had him protectively hugging himself. “If your mouth was the -- the last hole in the universe for me to stick my dick in, I’d… I’d still rather cut it off.”

Flinching at the imagery, Jerry, curled in on himself, looking up at a tear-blurred Rick. He wanted to scramble away, he wanted to bury himself under a heap of blankets, he wanted to run away to his parents and deal with whatever perverted mayhem he might encounter there -- but more than that he wanted Rick to keep talking to him. _Talking._ To _him_. _To_ him -- as if Rick really, really needed him to hear this (which, he supposed, Rick did).

“Remember what you said,” he tried again, still trying to butter up this wrinkled, loathsome old man, “about -- about the fire.”

Rick just made a disbelieving guffawing noise and looked towards the ceiling, as if telling some unseen camera: _Can you believe this asshole?_

“About how if I was on fire,” Jerry continued, “how you wouldn’t...”

“Jesus Christ, Jerry,” Rick said, and there was a finality in his voice now that had not been there before. “I’m not pissing on you. Get the fuck out.” And before Jerry even had time to turn red, Rick had made his way to his chair, and was concentrating all his attention on the air filter once more.

Jerry tried to catch his eye in vain before finally giving up and getting up (grunting; his knees weren’t what they used to be). He stumbled up the stairs, dizzy and disoriented, before collapsing onto his marital bed where he proceeded to kick off his pants and push down his underwear just far enough to access his cock. He sucked in a breath as he touched it, red and swollen and harder than it had been in weeks (months? _Years?_ )

When he finally breathed out the exhale turned into a snivelling noise halfway through, and then he was sobbing into Beth’s pillow as he jerked himself off, rutting into the comforter with his pants tangled around his ankles and his underwear constricting his thighs.

He came soon after, and as he smeared his come on the heavy material of the comforter the only image in his mind was Rick, Rick’s eyes burning holes in him, seeing the smallest, quietest parts of him. Even later, when he furtively dumped the bed linens in the washing machine, he kept coming back to that one thought: when was the last time someone had looked at him like that?

In the eye?


	3. If he commit iniquity

The study was mostly quiet (except for the low hum of the outdated PC) and mostly empty (except for Jerry, squirming restlessly on his chair). He turned his credit card over and over again in his hand, knowing that there would really be no coming back from this. The final leap off of the cliff.

Of course, if he was entirely honest with himself, he’d already made that leap earlier — specifically when he’d applied for an extra credit card. Of course he had the card that was connected to the account he shared with Beth, but the idea of her finding out what he was about to do through their credit card statement made him feel light-headed and sick with shame.

He stared at the screen. There was no doubt that he was about to do something ridiculous, but it seemed especially ridiculous at one in the afternoon. Still, with the children at school, Beth at work, and Rick gallivanting around in some distant part of the multiverse, there really was no better time to do this.

Taking a deep breath, he entered his credit card information, and finished registering his account. There was something soothing about the website’s purple background, and he could almost pretend he was registering a dental appointment or searching for recipes, if it weren’t for the categories on the left side of the screen. _Foot and Shoe_ was a particularly straightforward one. _Smoking_ , suggested another. One particular mystery category was Feminization. Jerry only had a dim idea what that might be, but it didn’t matter. He knew what he was here for, and with a trembling hand he clicked on _Fem Dommes_.

His eyes kept flicking to the _FIND MEN_ category, which seemed to be mocking him in aggressive caps. The only images that particular imperative conjured were of moustached men in impractical leather outfits, stern schoolmasters in tweed suits, and Tom of Finland types in police hats bursting out of their jockstraps. Not really the kind of thing he was after. No, he needed to _FIND WOMEN_ — and _FIND WOMEN_ he did.

Pages and pages worth of listings appeared on his screen. _Hypnosis/Sex Advice/Mature_ read the description of user HypnoTheresa. She had a five-star rating, and a picture of a woman he would not have looked at twice had he passed her in the street, all dark hair in a sensible haircut and tightly pursed lips without lipstick. Next to her was Princess Bitch, who boasted that she could _make you call, make you cry, make you cum_ , a promise accompanied by an avatar of a scantily-clad ass.

More than a few women mentioned something called CBT, which had Jerry lose all color as he looked up the acronym. There were other acronyms, too: CEI, SPH, JOI. Some terms just didn’t make sense — what was ‘edging’? How did one one ‘raise the rate’? What was ‘findom’, and what did ‘sissification’ entail? 

Then there were concepts he recognized: blackmail, chastity, cuckold, domination.

He scrolled through the pages, restlessly bouncing his knee up and down. He was looking for something, but wasn’t sure what it was — just that he would know it when he saw it. It felt a bit like standing in front of the fridge and not liking any of the contents. So many of these women looked too intimidating, or not like real women at all — like creatures of a totally different species. Several women advertised themselves as ‘goddesses’, and he supposed that fit as well as any other descriptor.

Finally he found a listing that looked just right. Mistress Molly billed her services as ‘humiliation’, among other things, and looked like a pretty blonde in her late twenties. He clicked on the button with the old-fashioned rotary phone that invited him to _Call Now_.

Almost immediately his phone started ringing, and he nearly fell out of his chair, trying to grab it. Finally he managed to keep his hands still long enough to answer it, and he pressed the phone to his ear.

“Hello?” he whispered.

On the other side of the line, he could hear dishes clinking together, and the sound of high heels on a wooden floor.

Jerry clutched the phone to his ear. Until now Mistress Molly had been nothing but a picture on a sleazy website, but now he could almost imagine himself standing in her kitchen. In her picture on the website, she looked like she had her life together — probably had a kitchen island, the walls a soft pastel yellow, homemade cookies in a glass jar somewhere on a shelf, a fruit bowl with at least ten lemons in it on the polished marble counter. She was in all likelihood wearing a summer dress. Then again, that was the kind of thing one could ask, right? Wasn’t that the point of these phone calls, to ask questions and paint some salacious picture in your head?

Taking a deep breath, he managed a wheezy: “What, uh… what are you wearing?” He heard humming in the distance. Mistress Molly seemed to have put down the phone. There was the sound of the fridge door closing, followed by a drawer opening. The rattling of cutlery.

Okay, so Mistress Molly was multi-tasking. Well, who could blame her? Most likely there wasn’t that much money to be made in this line of work, so she probably worked another job and just did this on the side during the evenings and whenever she had a day off. Maybe she was a substitute teacher. That seemed like the kind of job where you’d develop a domineering personality and where one might have a weekday afternoon off every now and then. Or maybe she ran one of those little cupcake shops (they seemed to be popping up all over the place like brightly colored, cutesy mushrooms) and she was working both jobs at once — baking and featuring in the sad imaginary sex lives of middle-aged, married men.

Still, he was paying two dollars a minute for this call so he deserved at least a bit of her attention. He cleared his throat. “Hello?” he tried. “Hello?” His voice cracked: “Molly? Uh, Mistress…?”

Mistress Molly was evidently rooting through the cutlery drawer, and humming something that sounded like a Broadway song. She did not respond. Had she not put the phone on speaker mode? Was this her first call as much as it was his? Jerry realized he was sweating; his armpits felt uncomfortably moist and when he pressed a hand to his forehead, it was hot.

“Molly?” he tried again, putting as much authority in his voice as he could muster considering he was currently calling someone who went by ‘Mistress Molly’. “Are you there?” What a ridiculous question. She was still humming and — from the sounds of it — stirring something. “Could you, uh… could you come to the phone?”

The stirring stopped, and Jerry’s stomach dropped as he tried to think of something to say to her once she finally picked up the phone. However, just as he decided on _Hi, my name is Jerry, I don’t usually do this kind of thing_ a loud whirring noise started up. A mixer? Was this woman serious?

“Hey! he shouted into his phone, shame replaced by righteous indignation. “I’m paying through the nose for this call! Hello?!” The loud whirring stopped, and he could hear the clicking of heels on hardwood floors.

“Yeah, I know you are. That’s kinda the point?” Mistress Molly said in a voice that sounded less like a sex kitten and more like the kind of woman to tell you to hurry up in the check-out line at Whole Foods.

“Excuse me?”Jerry frowned, squinting at the screen. Had he accidentally called some kind of culinary-themed phone sex line?

“Is this your first time calling?” In her voice, he could almost hear her rolling her eyes.

“Well, not that it matters — but yes, it is.” Jerry’s cheeks felt hot. He felt like a child being called on by the teacher on his first day of school.

“You’re calling my ignore line. Do you know what that is?”

Jerry scanned the monitor again. He hadn’t noticed that her listing mentioned _ignore line_ before, but now he saw it. The realization snuck up on him. “I… I’ve got an idea, yeah.”

“It means you call me and I ignore you,” Mistress Molly explained. “I get to do something useful and you get off.”

“Oh,” he said, his fingers digging into his knee. What an idiot he was. “Oh. That’s not really the kind of call I was looking for.”

“I figured,” Mistress Molly replied wryly. “Might want to hang up. Hey, don’t leave me a bad review, okay? Read the listing carefully next time.”

“Can’t we have a… a… different kind of call?”Jerry tried.

“No, sorry.” She did not sound particularly sorry. "I need to finish these cupcakes.” Cupcakes. He fucking called it. “I’m doing ignore calls until seven. If you want anything different, call me after that.”

“But my wife’s gonna be home in a couple of hours!”

“Then call someone else. You need to disconnect the call.”

“Oh, okay… well, um...” He struggled to find a way to end this call with at least some of his dignity intact. “Good luck with your cupcakes.”

“Yeah. You need to disconnect the call.”

“Bye,” he said, defeated, and hung up. For a moment, he just stared at the phone in his hand. He briefly contemplated hurling it against the wall, but it had been expensive and was only a few months old, and he had just spent ten whole dollars on one of the most mortifying experiences of his life. Red in the face with barely suppressed rage — directed as much at himself as at Mistress Molly — he put the phone on the desk, and got up.

Walking down the stairs he was only dimly aware that he was trembling. Adrenaline? Perhaps all he needed was a beer and some shitty daytime TV. Maybe _Real Housewives of Milwaukee_ was on.

As he entered the living room, however, he froze. Rick was sprawled out on the sofa, remote control in his hand, arm dangling to the floor. He was watching a cartoon on TV that seemed to feature an adorable eviscerated bunny rabbit that was singing a song about the days of the week, entrails bobbing along to the catchy melody. “ _Monday is the day when the sinners go to Heaven_ ,” it crooned, “ _Tuesday is the day when the sinners go to Hell_."

“You’re home?” Jerry gasped, images of what could have been — Rick with his ear pressed to the door as he panted and wheezed and masturbated throughout a phone call, Rick stumbling into the study to find him on the floor with clothes pegs on his nipples and a binder clip on his dick — flashing before his mind’s eye.

“Yeah.” Rick took a swig from his flask, and didn’t take his eyes off of the television. “ _Wednesday is the day our immortal soul is ruined_ ,” the bunny sang in a child-like soprano, “ _and Thursday is the day when we think that’s just as well_.”

“You don’t have anywhere to be?”Jerry saw his chances to try his luck at over-the-phone sexual humiliation once more evaporate.

“Nope,” Rick said. The bunny was now jumping rope with its own large intestine. Little flecks of blood splattered on the screen every time it jumped. “ _And Friday is the day that, Friday is the day that, Friday is the day that we’re locked up in our cell!_ ” The image cut to a soda commercial straight away. Rick finally looked over at Jerry, his eyes unfocused and his face flushed. There was a dark stain on the sofa where he had apparently drooled onto it.

 _Drunk,_ Jerry thought with disgust. Then he thought it again, but with something that had much less to do with disgust and much more with the feeling one gets when God closes a door and opens a garbage chute.

“You alright?” He sat down on the armrest.

“F-fuck off,” Rick sneered, waving him away with an uncoordinated gesture. It looked like he was trying to single-handedly swat a fly out of the air. “Y-you know, y-y-you — _euughh_ — y-you got a real knack for… for harshing my buzz, Jerry. I-it’s uncanny."

“I’m sorry,” Jerry said, almost automatically, but when he saw Rick’s face contort into an expression of disgust he repeated: “No, really — I’m _sorry_ ,” in his whiniest, most nasal voice — the voice he used to get out of chores and fights with Beth. Beth had once told him that it reminded her of a dog rolling over on its back and offering its throat.

“Just fuck off,” Rick repeated, not taking his eyes off of Jerry.

Jerry swallowed down the saliva collecting in his mouth. Was he about to vomit, or was he hungry? “Hey, you don’t look too hot,” he tried again, and reached a tentative hand out to Rick’s forehead. Quicker than he should have been able to, Rick slapped it away.

“Don’t even try this shit on me,” he said. His chin was wet with drool, his lips chapped. He looked like he’d been lying dead in a public bathroom for hours, but his eyes did not leave Jerry’s, and he made no move to get up.

“I’m just worried,” Jerry wheedled, rubbing his hand. “Is that… is that so bad?” The TV still blared — a PSA about animal neglect had come on — until Rick finally turned it off, and threw the remote on the floor.

“Th-this is pathetic, Jerry.”

Jerry’s heartbeat felt like he’d just walked ten flights of stairs. Something about being the sole object of that steely look had him reeling in the worst way. Fuck ignore lines. This was so much better. “You wanna — you wanna know what I was doing upstairs?”

Rick didn’t respond, but the corners of his mouth sank in disgust.

“I was… I was calling one of those, one of those lines. The ones… you read about sometimes. In the newspaper. The ones you get pop-ups about.” His voice turned plaintive, but this time the sincerity of the sound surprised even him. “You did that to me.”

“I didn’t do shit,” Rick said. “Y-you’re the result of your shitty upbringing and y-your appalling life choices.”

“I was never like this,” Jerry lied, and he felt an intense urge to kiss Rick — no, to _be kissed_ by Rick, to lie there and take it. His nails dug into the armrest. 

“So how’d your phone call go?”

“I did it wrong,” Jerry said. Shame hit him like a wave of nausea.

There was a moment that he’d look back on later, where either one of them could still have left. The air seemed to quiver like the air above asphalt in the distance on a hot day, until he realized he had simply teared up. Rick looked like his reflection would look in a puddle, and as he shifted on the couch, Jerry instinctively flinched away.

“On your knees,” Rick commanded, lurching to his feet. Jerry was quick to obey. “I-I can’t even begin to — begin to _fathom_ how you did a call to a sex worker _wrong_ ,” Rick waved his hands around in a drunken attempt at air quotes, “but I don’t actually give a — a single shit.”

Jerry winced, and then again as he could feel the crotch of his slacks grow tight. Hunched over as he sat, he looked up at Rick, who promptly spat in his face. Jerry gasped in indignation, but then realized that made his mouth an even easier target and curled in on himself once more.

“Don’t look at me,” Rick sneered. “Unzip your pants.”

Hands shaking, Jerry obeyed. He wanted to reach up and wipe at his cheek, but was not sure if Rick would just take that as an invitation to spit at him again.

“Now pull them down,” Rick instructed.

Jerry sat up a little, and pushed down his pants. He hooked his thumbs behind the elastic of his underwear, and shot Rick a questioning look — or, to be precise, shot Rick’s chest a questioning look. Rick gave him a curt nod, and Jerry swallowed hard, pulling down his underwear. His briefs caught on his erection, and when it finally sprang free it bounced lewdly. Rick raised an eyebrow.

“U-unbelievable, Jerry.”

“I’m sorry,” Jerry whimpered, and was rewarded with a slap in the face.

“Just keep y-your mouth shut, Jerry. I’m — I’m doing you a favor here, and the least you can do is make me… make me not want to vomit at that whiny-ass voice of yours.”

Jerry stared at the rug. A favor?

“Clearly y-you’re too inept to do something about that miserable little dick of yours,” Rick continued, “so let me give you a few pointers. Spit in your hand.”

Cheeks burning, Jerry raised a trembling hand to his face. Was this really happening? Was Rick about to talk him through a jerk-off session? He stared at his palm. He felt like a teenager in all the worst ways.

“Too difficult?” Rick grasped his wrist, hard enough to bruise, and hacked and coughed a palmful of phlegm in Jerry’s hand. “There you go.”

Jerry could feel his stomach turning, and his chest felt tight with the effort of keeping down the bile that threatened to flood his mouth. Rick’s voice sounded far away, and he could barely make out “Now grab your dick,” through the sound of blood rushing in his ears. Before he could think about his palm’s slimy wetness he curled his fingers around the base of his cock, and waited for further instructions.

“Good,” Rick praised him as one might praise a cat for shitting in its litter box, “now I want you to loosen y-your grip, Jerry. Feels counterintuitive, huh? The point is that — that good things _come_ to those who wait. Get it? _Come?_ Now move your hand up — and down… yeah, you got it.”

Jerry gritted his teeth, his free hand squeezing his thigh as if pain could somehow undo the humiliation. Still he followed Rick’s instructions, his palm sliding up and down his cock, slippery with spit and mucus.

“Now when you get to the head just run the — the tip of your index finger over it. That’s it. Aaaand… we’re back to up, and down. Right. Keep that… keep that up. Okay, we’re back at the head — with your thumb this time… how’s that feel?”

Jerry managed a breathy moan that he hoped would satisfy Rick as an answer, without breaking the command to keep his mouth shut. Rick seemed pleased — or at least pleased enough not to slap him in the face again.

“You’re probably close, huh, Jerry?”

Almost as if it was ordered to, Jerry’s cock twitched in his hand. He’d never been quite this quick before. Maybe Rick was right and he couldn’t even jerk off right when left to his own devices. He nodded stiffly.

“Good,” Rick crooned, “because the sight of that miserable dick of yours is making me sick to my stomach, so let’s put an end to this. Increase your grip. Move faster.”

In a way, Jerry thought to himself — the realization sneaking up on him — this was kind of nice.

“Go ahead then,” Rick instructed, “come.”

Jerry clenched his jaw, but although he could feel that familiar haze settling over his mind, he seemed unable to orgasm.

“Come on,” Rick said impatiently.

Squeezing hard enough to hurt now, Jerry continued jacking off. Why — why was this suddenly a problem? Oh god, what if Rick took this as an insult, or as some kind of intentional refusal — ! He winced as Rick squatted in front of him, only for his eyes to shoot open when he felt Rick’s calloused fingers on his cheek, his thumb running along his lower lip.

“Come on, baby,” Rick murmured, and that was enough.

With a strangled sound, Jerry came, and — mind foggy in the afterglow — looked up at Rick, who had stood up. Whatever had possessed Rick to touch him like that had clearly left him, as he was now wiping his hand on his labcoat, sneering at Jerry.

“You sad sonofabitch. Well, you got yours — reckon i-it’s about time I got mine.” Rick pulled out his flaccid cock and shot Jerry another contemptuous look. “Y-you ever suck a dick before, Jerry?”

Jerry obediently kept his mouth shut.

“Probably,” Rick decided, “but I-I’m guessing you’re no good at it, huh? Doesn’t… doesn’t matter, _champ_. Open up.”

Jerry barely had his mouth open before Rick stuffed his soft cock into it, and he gagged, prompting Rick to grab him by the hair and force him down even further. Choking and gagging, he was only barely aware of the wiry pubic hair his nose was nestled in, of the smell of sweat and piss and poor hygiene. Just as he was sure he would vomit all over Rick’s cock Rick released him, and he shot back, gasping for air, his throat raw.

“That’s what happens when you gag, bitch,” Rick sneered, “I-I’ll give you something to gag about. Try again.”

Jerry gingerly reached out to take a hold of Rick, giving his dick a few tentative strokes. He glanced up, but Rick had turned on the TV and was looking at it. Cheeks burning, he realized he was currently losing the battle for Rick’s attention to a screen — and he had Rick’s dick in his hand, for fuck’s sake. He took the head into his mouth. Now that he had something to focus on beside a desperate need for air, the smell of Rick’s cock almost had him gagging — but having learned his lesson, he willed the reflex away. 

He took as much of Rick’s dick in his mouth as he could, which wasn’t much — he was inexperienced, and it was surprisingly difficult to suck someone off when they were as soft as Rick was. Whisky dick? Or was he just that repulsive?

He tried to remember any tricks Beth might have used on him back when she still went down on him every now and then, but came up short. Rick snorted, but whether it was at his performance or the _Friends_ rerun on TV was unclear. Jerry’s chest heaved. He was losing to a fucking rerun of _Friends_.

“Hey, Jerry,” Rick said, eyes still glued to the screen. “When I’m ready, you better… you better take everything I give you. Every last drop.”

Jerry nodded dubiously. The idea of swallowing Rick’s load wasn’t particularly appealing, but at the moment it seemed downright impossible for anything of the sort to happen anyway. Unless Rick had mastered the art of erection-free orgasms.

“Good,” Rick said, “here it comes.”

Lips still locked around Rick’s cock, Jerry only had a moment of bewilderment before it flooded his mouth. A warm, bitter, seemingly never-ending stream. But the consistency —

His eyes widened as he realized what exactly Rick was shooting down his throat, and he pushed himself away, Rick’s urine pouring out his mouth, onto the rug — and then he was on all fours, vomiting up Rick’s piss, the smell of it everywhere, soaking his shirt, his pants, his hair. Every time he thought his stomach was empty the smell hit him and he heaved again, eyes watering, his tongue lolling helplessly in his mouth.

Suddenly he was yanked up by the back of his shirt and deposited over the very same armrest he’d sat down on only a short while ago. He tried to push himself off the couch again, but once more there was that hand between his shoulder blades and for a moment it was like he was still in the garage, like everything that had happened after that had simply been a fever dream and he was still at Rick’s mercy.

“Pathetic,” Rick hissed behind him, followed by the unmistakeable sound of a belt being pulled through its loops. “I-I told you this isn’t the kind of game you want to be playing, Jerry. Well, if you’re asking for a beating, I’ll… I’ll let you have it.”

His pants were pulled all the way down, followed by his underwear, and with his ankles restricted Jerry thrashed uselessly, the taste and smell of urine and stomach acid still permeating his very being, sweat running down his back, piss running down his face, and long-forgotten wounds on his ass suddenly aching anew.

“Please,” he cried out, “this isn’t...”

“I-it’s exactly what you deserve,” Rick interjected, “and give me a fucking break, Jerry. It’s exactly what you wanted. Now stay there or I’m tying you to that couch and leaving you until… until your wife comes home.”

Rick’s hand left his back, and Jerry buried his face into the sofa cushions.

The first time the belt cracked down it was exactly as bad as he’d been expecting it to be: almost cataclysmic. He screamed into the sofa, and was dimly aware of Rick hovering over him, no doubt ready to push him back down should he attempt to get back up. But Rick needn’t have worried — it was true enough that he deserved this, and that he wanted this was probably true, too.

After five more swats, that mindset had entirely left him and it was only the mental image of Beth walking into the living room to find him tied to the sofa, piss-soaked, his ass red, vomit on the rug, that kept him in place. He tried to kick his legs, but one particularly nasty stroke to the backs of thighs had him abandoning that endeavor immediately.

In the background he could hear the _Friends_ theme song. _So no one told you life was gonna be this way…_

“We’ll keep going,” Rick said, “until the first commercial break.”

“When’s that!” Jerry managed to choke out, only barely intelligible through the snot in his nose.

Rick was quiet for a moment. “The dimension this channel’s from? Who knows.”

Jerry tried to think wholesome thoughts like _but what if the kids get home early_ and _what if Beth comes home before we’re done_ , but found all those potentially horrifying possibilities paled in comparison to the one thought that throbbed along the red marks on his ass: _how long can I bear this?_

Rick continued his assault on his ass, and Jerry desperately scrabbled for purchase, trying to hold onto something. His cock rubbed against the armrest, but after his orgasm it only overstimulated him and it felt like it was being rubbed raw. Still that was nothing compared to the belt snapping down again, and again, and again. Last time there’d been a count, a number he could cling to — this time he had no clue how long he’d been here and how long he had left to go, and it made it much worse than he could have imagined. Had he sought this out? Had he sought _this_ out? Did he deserve this?

He thought back to Mistress Molly. To the garage. To throwing up on the carpet. To his talk with Beth. Before he knew it, he was sobbing, and the fight had entirely left him. He simply lay there as a taciturn Rick whipped his ass. This time, he knew, Rick would be drawing blood. He couldn’t find it in himself to care.

Time stretched and shrunk like a rubber band, and before he knew it, it was over.

Nothing seemed entirely real anymore. He could still hear the audience laughing, but when that sound suddenly stopped Jerry didn’t even realize what had happened until he was once again pulled to his feet by the back of his shirt.

“Commercial break,” Rick said. “We’re done here.”

Jerry’s legs shook, and he had to cling to the sofa to stay on his feet. He looked at the rug. Vomit and piss everywhere.

“Might want to clean that up,” Rick said, and casually aimed his portal gun at the wall, and was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are probably two more chapters left in this monster of a fic. Thank you so much for reading, bookmarking, and commenting!


	4. I will chasten him with the rod of men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Jerry's third run-in with Rick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been over a year, but this disgusting fic never truly left me. Here I am with the latest chapter! One more after this one - hopefully I'll manage to post that one before 2018.

Jerry stood in the middle of the room. His throat felt raw after all the piss and stomach acid that had risen up through it, his ass stung, and he could feel a wetness sliding down his legs that implied bleeding. He had not been able to gather the courage to touch or even look at the damage Rick had done. His head was pounding, and he was surrounded by evidence of the grave mistake he’d made when he decided to confront Rick a third time.

Still, with Rick gone and his punishment over, all that remained were two things: the pain, and adrenaline. With these two things combined, his mind was clearer than it had been in weeks. He glanced at the clock, and knew he wouldn’t have time to get the living room back to its usual state before either Beth or the kids came home. All he could do was come up with a good cover story for the mess, and hide the things he couldn’t possibly explain – his ass, which had been whipped raw, and the semen on his clothes and on the floor.

When Beth came home, her husband was lying on the sofa, hollow-eyed, his skin an unhealthy grayish color. He didn’t seem to register her arrival, and when she stepped into the living room, she was hit by the acrid smell of vomit.

“What happened?” She stood next to the sofa, shoulders slumped, and put down her bag down on a clean part of the carpet. “Jesus, Jerry, what the hell happened here?”

Jerry opened his eyes – still red and puffy – and tried to speak. His voice was a hoarse croak which surprised himself as much as it did Beth: “I’m sick.”

“No shit!” Beth ran a hand through her hair, looking around the living room. “What-what did you do? Did you throw up in here? Why aren’t you wearing a shirt? Jesus, Jerry, I come home from work to _this_... you think I don’t have enough to do?”

“I felt hot,” Jerry offered, trying not to explain himself too much.

Beth hesitated before pressing the back of her hand to his forehead. “Doesn’t feel like a fever.” As she withdrew her hand, she wrinkled her nose. “Is that… Jerry, did you… is the floor _wet…?!_ Oh my god.”

“I’m sorry.” This part, at least, was true. Jerry felt his insides twist. Lying down on the sofa on his bleeding ass was painful enough, but watching Beth try to take control of the situation was even worse.

“I’ll see if I can find the carpet cleaner. Get yourself to bed. I’ll bring you a bucket in a bit.” Beth stalked out of the living room, muttering to herself.

Jerry would have been more upset about the way she abandoned him if he couldn’t use the opportunity to drag himself up the stairs, wincing and grimacing as his pants touched his too-fresh wounds. In the bedroom, he dumped his pants at the back of the closet, and sobbed quietly as he pulled on his pajamas. It was another half an hour before Beth came by with the promised bucket, and she dropped it by the bed, her hair in a practical ponytail. “Do you need a doctor?” she asked. “I’m cleaning the living room but Dad could take you when he gets back. It might be some kind of virus he dragged into the house anyway.”

“No!” Jerry’s knuckles went white as he gripped the comforter more tightly. “It’s-it’s just a virus. Maybe I should take some Tylenol. Anyway, it’s fine. I’ll be fine.”

“You seem better,” Beth said, eyes unreadable, and left.

Jerry drifted off into a fitful sleep, and only woke up when the mattress dipped. The bedroom was dark, and he was disoriented enough to wonder if Rick had come back for him – a thought that had him trying to scoot back, only to cry out at the friction on his ass.

The lights flicked on immediately, and Summer and Morty stared at him - Morty in shock, Summer in dismay. “Chill out, dad. It’s just us,” she said. “Mom said you were feeling under the weather – like, what happened?”

Jerry gaped at her, and Morty – who was the one who’d sat down on the bed – put a shaky hand on his arm. “Y-y-y-you don’t, uh, you don’t look so hot, dad. What’s wrong?”

Staring at Morty’s hand as if his son had just clamped a set of handcuffs on him, Jerry tried to wake himself up enough to tell a believable lie. “Well, I’m – truth be told, your – your old man just isn’t… I mean, it might be a bacteria, or…”

A low rumble came from downstairs, followed by a sound that was unmistakably Beth shouting. Summer looked towards the bedroom door. “Mom thinks it’s something Grandpa Rick did,” she shrugged. “I mean, no surprise there, right? He’s always tracking all kinds of things in the house.”

“It just-it just sucks that it always gets you, huh, dad?” Morty said, sympathetically patting Jerry on the arm. “I mean, you can’t help that your – your immune system isn’t in tune with, y’know, the extraterrestrial flu or whatever.”

“Yeah,” Jerry choked out. The mention of _Rick_ had him lose all color.

Summer opened the door, and the argument that was taking place downstairs now became slightly more intelligible. Rick’s part of the dialogue was still mostly inaudible, but Beth did most of the talking anyway: “...can’t believe you keep exposing us to whatever crap you come across! What’s it this time? Space AIDS? He looks terrible! He asked me for some Tylenol. Some _Tylenol,_ Dad. Like that’s gonna do anything about some bug you picked up on Alpha Centauri!”

Another low rumble followed. Morty shook his head. “He’s probably telling her Alpha Centauri is a star so you can’t pick up anything, uh, on it.”

“That’s not the point!” shrieked Beth from downstairs.

“Anyway, we just wanted to see how you were doing.” Summer jerked her head at her little brother, and Morty slid off the bed. She continued: “I’m sure you’ll be OK. Even if it’s something Rick did, he didn’t seem too worried when mom described your symptoms, so I guess it’s fine.”

“Get some sleep,” Morty said, smiling lopsidedly, and the two left the room, switching off the light on their way out.

With the children gone, Jerry was left alone in the dark once more, and as the anxiety he’d felt at their presence subsided, he became more and more aware of the sorry state his body was in. He wanted desperately to roll onto his side, but feared that he’d kick off the blankets in his sleep and wake up to a horrified Beth pointing at his backside, his pajama pants stuck to his ass with dried blood. His throat, too, felt raw, and for the first time since Rick had laid hands on him he felt really, truly sorry for himself.

Sleep did not come easily, and Jerry only realized how much he’d relied on tossing and turning to distract himself from his thoughts now that he was no longer able to roll around. Still, finally, mercifully, it announced itself.

He awoke with a pair of lips pressed to his sweaty forehead. He cracked open his eyes, and the first thing he saw had his every synapse firing up with one simple message: _get away, get away_. Rick was standing at the foot of the bed, his arms folded, his expression an especially disturbing kind of blank. A purposeful kind of blank. Jerry stared at him, dimly wondering if it had been Rick who had kissed him on the forehead.

“Hey there,” Beth said, and Jerry jerked his head towards her. She looked uncharacteristically worried, and seemed to have taken out any residual frustration at having to clean her piss-soaked living room on her father. She stroked Jerry’s damp hair away from his forehead. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Jerry said, entirely too quickly. He thought he could hear Rick scoff, but Beth didn’t seem to have noticed.

“You don’t look that much better,” Beth said, shooting a glacial glance in Rick’s direction. “I’m pretty sure it’s something Dad tracked into the house. Dad?”

Jerry’s heart seemed to have stopped. Rick bared his yellow teeth in a mockery of a friendly smile, and said: “Sorry about that, _Jer_. Y-you know, I, I gotta be honest, I probably had something to do with it.”

“Probably,” Beth huffed, still petting Jerry’s hair with a tenderness that had been absent from the way she touched him for ages. “Well, you’ll be better soon enough. Dad’ll make sure of that.”

Jerry’s body felt paralyzed. He felt locked inside his own skin, and although he was tense with the need to run, to fight, to cry out, he could only lie there in horrified silence, waiting for the suggestion he knew Beth was about to make.

“He’ll take care of you. Right, Dad? Figure out what’s wrong with you, make sure to get you back to normal.” Beth leaned over, the ceiling lamp giving her a perfect halo, and again kissed his forehead. Jerry wanted to scream.

“Y-you got it, Beth,” Rick said, his voice dripping with a cloying sweetness that should have tipped even Beth off that all was not right.

Instead, however, she just smiled, looking back between her husband and her father, clearly pleased with herself to have brokered a peace treaty between the warring states of Smith and Sanchez. “I’m so glad,” she said, and ran her thumb over Jerry’s cheekbone before exiting the bedroom, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Although Jerry knew that outside that door were his wife and his children, they might as well have been on another planet. Rick didn’t budge from his spot at the foot of the bed, but didn’t take his eyes off of Jerry either. He seemed to be waiting for some kind of reaction, but Jerry could hardly find the words to put to the feeling of dread that fired up his nerve endings and paralyzed his muscles. “Aren’t you going to close the door?” he finally asked.

“No,” Rick replied. “You’ll just have to be very quiet.” With a final, penetrating look, he turned around, turned off the light, and left.

At first Jerry thought he might be gathering some more instruments of torture. Then he allowed himself to entertain a hope that Rick had been lying to Beth and had no intention whatsoever of spending any extended amount of time with his son-in-law. Then he convinced himself Rick was just going to let him die of thirst or hunger. Finally he didn’t have any conscious thoughts at all, just an all-pervading sense of terror at the inevitability of Rick’s return.

Before Rick returned, however, Beth came in to tell him she’d be sleeping on the couch (“No offense, honey, but if it’s contagious – well, you know”), Morty and Summer came to wish him a good night in the kind of hushed voice people generally use around the dead and the dying, and after that another hour passed, and another, and another, until the alarm clock read _03:01_. Only then did Rick finally return, a small, nondescript bag in hand, flicking on the ceiling lamp. In the low, yellow light, his features looked uncharacteristically soft. Perhaps soft was not the right word; whereas Rick’s face was usually all hard angles, now it was undefined, almost as if he’d stretched a latex mask of his own face over his actual features.

“Your wife’s downstairs,” he said by way of greeting, “and your children are in their rooms. You’re gonna be quiet, right?”

Jerry nodded, relieved that the wait was finally over, disgusted with himself at that relief.

Rick sat down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping, and put a hand on Jerry’s duvet-covered crotch. His touch was not necessarily unpleasant or unfriendly, but Jerry flinched all the same, and then again at the way the sudden movement brought the pain in his ass back to the forefront of his consciousness.

“Y-you made a real mess of the living room, Jerry,” Rick chastised him, shaking his head. “But it, it couldn’t be helped, right? Y-you’re _sick_.”

Jerry eyed him warily. “I’m sick,” he confirmed.

“Because of me, right, Jer?” Rick’s spindly fingers began to knead his soft cock through the duvet. “I made you sick.” He pursed his lips, quirking an eyebrow.

“Rick, please,” Jerry begged. This horrible game of double entendres was bad enough, but he knew Rick hadn’t just come here to verbally humiliate him. He glanced at the old hand – sallow skin stretched over thin bones, liver spots – currently massaging his dick. Surely Rick’s endgame wasn’t to give him a handjob. Still, although he trembled with the effort of staying still in the face of the many potential horrors Rick could inflict on his crotch, his flesh was only dumb, willing flesh, and he could feel his dick twitch, traitorous blood flowing where it shouldn’t.

“It’s okay,” Rick said, baring his yellow teeth. “Y-you’re fine. Look, I-I know _just_ the thing. You-you-you can’t, can’t control yourself, Jerry, and I’m gonna make sure y-you don’t have to worry your _pretty little head_ about anything of the sort, okay? You – there’s gonna be no more, no more thinking required on your part. Just, y’know, y-y-you can just lie back and relax.”

“You’re scaring me,” Jerry said, realizing his error the moment he caught the gleam in Rick’s eye. “You’re _scaring me_ ,” he repeated all the same when Rick finally grabbed the bag and showed Jerry its contents: bottles, plastic tubing, a bag, a syringe.

Rick folded back the duvet, and the controlled and calm way in which he did it terrified Jerry more than him whipping it away would have. Despite the fact that he was still wearing his pajamas, the sudden chill and Rick’s cold gaze made Jerry feel more exposed than he’d ever felt while naked. It seemed Rick had decided he’d explained himself enough, and he simply hooked his fingers behind the waistband of Jerry’s pants and pulled them down. Jerry cried out as the fabric was forcibly dragged along the wounds on his backside, and Rick made a point of stopping and putting a thin finger to Jerry’s lips. “Y-you’re not gonna make this their problem, Jerry,” he warned, jerking his head in the direction of the door.

Jerry was left to chew on his cheek nervously, already tearing up at the sheer agony of having his fresh wounds agitated and reopened without even the luxury of crying about it. Rick was ruthless, and made quick work of pulling down both Jerry’s pants and underwear to his knees. The half-chub Rick’s gentle handjob had caused had wilted the moment Rick tugged down his pants, and Jerry was left half-naked, his dick miserable, shrivelled and soft, almost as if it was trying to retract in on itself to avoid whatever plans Rick might have for it. “What are you doing?” Jerry finally asked, figuring that not knowing would always be worse than knowing, and that whatever his brain conjured would always be worse than what Rick really had in mind.

“You’ll see,” Rick simply said, tugging on a pair of latex gloves. He grabbed one of the bottles – a small spray bottle, the kind you might find in a travel toiletry bag – and first sprayed the rest of the bag’s contents before covering his gloved hands with a fine mist, too. The smell was sharp and oddly familiar. It reminded Jerry of visits to the nurse back in school. “Wouldn’t want you to get even sicker,” Rick said, spraying Jerry’s cock, too.

As the reality of what Rick was subjecting him to took form in his mind, Jerry found himself staring at his father-in-law in disbelief. He opened his mouth, ready to protest or even call for help, but Rick shot him a sidelong glance and held up a second bottle. “I can make this a lot easier,” he said, “or a lot harder.” Jerry sank back against his pillow and looked away, defeated. He could only feel the cold glob of what had to be lubricant that Rick applied to the head of his cock, unwilling (and unable) to look at the proceedings. There was a sound of rustling plastic, the feeling of a latex-covered hand picking up his dick, and then the utterly alien feeling of something trying to _enter_ his urethra. Jerry made the mistake of looking down, but the sight of plastic tubing being pushed inside his most vulnerable of parts had his vision swimming and he stared at Rick, trying desperately not to faint. Who knew to what kind of mess he’d come to?

Even if he couldn’t see what was happening, he felt it all the more. The tube slid in slowly – more slowly, Jerry thought in between his desperate gasps for air, than was probably strictly necessary – with Rick holding his dick steady. Rick’s eyes were trained on the task at hand, and only when he’d fed most of the plastic tube into Jerry’s urethra did he look him in the eye, all mock-concern and fake professionalism. “How’s that feel?”

Almost immediately, the tube seemed to broach some inner barrier and Jerry winced. “Please take it out,” he whimpered. “Rick, it-it – you’re hurting me.”

“Hurting you?” Rick leisurely began to jerk him off, his brow furrowed. “D-didn’t you hear your wife? I’m making sure you get _all_ better. Just, just trust ol’ Rick.” His free hand took the syringe out of the bag, and he attached it to one of the two openings at the end of the tube, pressing down the plunger. This was followed by an uncomfortable feeling in what Jerry could only assume was his bladder. Rick gently tugged on the catheter, and Jerry winced – but it didn’t budge. “Almost done,” Rick announced, and removed the syringe, hooking up a drainage bag instead.

There was nothing Jerry could do. Piss slowly began to fill the bag, and even with Rick’s uncharacteristically careful hand around his cock, there was nothing remotely arousing about the situation. The fact that he was no longer in control of that most basic of bodily functions – something even an infant can accomplish on its own – was somehow much more torturous than his throbbing ass and much more shameful than having his wife clean up the filthy living room.

Rick, however, seemed almost electrified. His eyes shone in the bedroom’s dim light, and the hint of a genuine smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. His lips were parted just a bit, and he stared at Jerry’s crotch in rapt attention. “That’s it,” he whispered, and then his hand was on his own crotch, a growing bulge straining against his slacks.

The feeling of the plastic tube distending his urethra, his dick so callously filled, was obviously not something Jerry would be getting used to anytime soon – but seeing Rick palm at his own cock, even after everything he’d been through at his father-in-law’s hands, was an even bigger shock still. He met Rick’s eyes, and only barely suppressed a shudder at the sheer glee in Rick’s eyes.

“Y-you help me out with this, and I’ll go easy on you, Jer,” Rick crooned, sounding less than genuine. “Just a-a-a – y’know, I was gonna ask you for some lip service, but that didn’t work out all that great so we’ll keep it nice and simple.” He grabbed Jerry’s wrist and forcefully pressed his hand against his hard-on, hot and throbbing. “You know what to do.”

And Jerry did. It was difficult with only one hand (and without moving around too much for fear of disturbing the catheter), but he managed to undo Rick’s fly and free his cock. The tip was slick with precum already, and Jerry wasted no time working Rick’s shaft as vigorously as he could, desperate to get this new humiliation over with.

Rick threw his head back and sighed contentedly, resting one hand on Jerry’s head, mussing up his hair. “That’s the ticket. See what y-you can achieve when you only have to focus on one thing? When you don’t have to worry – ah, _fuck._ That’s nice right there – when you don’t have to worry about not pissing yourself? Let ol’ Rick take care of all of that for you. Right?”

Jerry said nothing. He stared up at the ceiling and tried to trick his mind into being anywhere else – but in what other situation would he possibly be giving someone a handjob with a catheter stuck up his cock? A sharp tug on his hair broke through even that train of thought and he looked at Rick, teary-eyed and shame-faced.

“I said: _right?”_ Rick repeated, eyes narrow.

“Right,” Jerry was quick to admit, the last of the contents of his bladder dripping into the plastic bag.

Rick – who’d been ready to go for a while – gave little warning before he came. A grunt, another fierce tug on Jerry’s curls, and thick globs covered Jerry’s quivering hand. Rick grabbed a tissue to wipe himself and Jerry clean (and, to Jerry’s dismay, stuck the filthy tissue in a pocket of his labcoat) and then turned to Jerry. “I told you I’d go easy on you. So I’ll give you a choice.”

He made quick work of the catheter – draining the water-filled balloon that had kept it inside his bladder with the syringe, clamping off the tube, withdrawing the catheter (a sudden stinging feeling had Jerry gasping), and before Jerry knew it it was all gone. Everything except for the drainage bag, which Rick now held up to him.

“A choice,” Rick said, sounding like he was weighing his words carefully. “How – how’d it feel to have your wife clean up your mess, Jerry?”

“Bad,” Jerry replied hoarsely. He couldn’t see where Rick was going with this and it terrified him.

“Bad,” Rick nodded. “So here’s your choice. Either I pour this bag out over your lap and call her in here to tell her y-you’ve had another accident,” a heavy pause, “or I’ll let you take care of it.”

“Please!” Jerry grabbed Rick’s sleeve. “Just leave her out of it – I can take care of it!”

“Yeah?” Rick looked around. “But you’re bedridden. Where are you gonna put it?” The sickening grin on his face made his plan glaringly obvious.

“Rick,” Jerry tried, but it was futile – and he didn’t even wait for a response before taking the bag from Rick in defeat.

“Y-you’re welcome.”

And Jerry put the opening at the top of the bag to his lips, shot Rick one last pleading look, found it was met with cheery indifference, and drank down his own piss, his chest tight as he tried his hardest not to spit it all out once more. He’d barely had anything to drink that day and it was pungent in a way that irritated his nose and his tear ducts – and maybe that was the only reason tears slid down his face when he finished and handed back the bag to a triumphant Rick, who took it from him and patted him on the head.

Rick gathered his things and got up, ignoring Jerry as if he was just another decorative throw pillow. He was halfway out the door when Jerry managed to find his voice.

“Why?” Jerry asked, wiping at his eyes like a child.

Rick turned around slowly, and stood silently for a few moments. Finally: “You started it,” he replied soberly, and until long after he had left Jerry turned that thought over and over in his mind like someone trying to find the flaw in someone else’s handiwork, but found none. Before long, it was all he could think: _I started it. I started it._


End file.
